


why god move the sun without burning his shoulders

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Cults, Anal Sex, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We gonna talk about my mama,” Sam says, and Dean chokes and Dad makes some kind of warble in his throat and Elder’s mouth bends, fragile-thin.</p><p>John's got two kids under the age of five and his wife's turned to ash on the ceiling of their family home. The Harmony took them in when John's options were set to zero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	why god move the sun without burning his shoulders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetheartdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/gifts).



> So basically; I pieced this together on no sleep and with like, seven hours of straight writing. When the juices are flowing, they're flowing, guys.
> 
> This is for sketchydean because I'm like, her number one fan and I (probably somewhat unsuccessfully) attempted to incorporate most of her likes into this fic.
> 
> This is all from my fragile head; a universe where John is accosted by a cult leader prior to discovering the supernatural, and what, exactly, it has in store for his family.
> 
> Title taken from Ascension by Flatbush Zombies.

**I. The Harmony of the Abiding End**

 

 

_Epilogue_

As it turns out; Dean’s threshold for forgiveness begins, and ends, with Sam.

Why god move the sun without burning his shoulders?

-

Sam’s not supposed to recall the heat of it.

He understands not to talk about it, discuss the existence of that memory and what it stands for.

Dean runs his mouth on it at Sam’s behest and Sam blinks down at him.

There's an order to these sort of things.

Dean’s different around The Harmony, quieter in a way that Sam can't quite grasp.

Dean’s been wearing grey since he turned eighteen: Emergent-Adult, and Sam’s got three weeks until he shifts from Adolescence to Emergent and Dean looks down on him fondly.

“I dunno Sammy,” Dean says; he's picking the leaves off of strawberries and Sam nudges the trash can closer so that Dean doesn't mess up the floor.

“It was hot, alright, s’all I remember.”  Dean’s gaze is downturned and Sam leans back in his chair.

“What's talking about it supposed to change?”

Dean’s fingers are nimble, thin and lithe.

Sam’s arranged bigger than his brother and his hand overlaps Dean’s even though his brother is no slouch.

Where Dean is china, Sam is brown and bottomless. Dean's got more patience for this sort of thing.

Sam would rather drag his head down against the spine of a book.

“S’not supposed to change anything, asshole,” Sammy says and Dean turns halfway around to glare.

“What exactly is it supposed to do then?” Dean’s brow is furrowed and his fingertips are stained pink-grey, nails sunken into ripe flesh.

Sam shoves the container further out of Dean’s reach just to listen to his brother hiss under his breath.

“Watch your mouth,” Dean says half-heartedly, and Sam dunks his own hand in the Tupperware and pulls one out whole.

He turns it over in his palm, exposed seeds and overlapping stem.

“You should've watched it better when you were the one teachin’ me,” Sam replies, and Dean’s silk-mouth twists.

“Elder’s turning you into a damn foreigner,” Dean says, and that's as close as Dean’s ever gotten to blasphemy.

Sam arches his legs, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s too long for Red, but he's got to wear it. There are 21 days and three Temporals until his Advent and if he's anything; he's patient.

“Wash your mouth out and kneel,” Sam says, and Dean blinks carefully, stained fingers poised.

“Fuck off,” Dean says, but it's careful, quiet.

“You know the Tenet s’well as I do,” Sam says, hushed. He likes strawberries. Picks the seeds clean when he can and eats them whole when he can't.

“When’s the last time--when did I make you do it,” Dean says, and he's stopped picking entirely, face flushed.

Sam’s in too deep; Dean’s about the same shade as Sam’s Adolescence and Sam taps his fingers against his thigh.

“To keep thy mouth clean is to maintain purity, and that, above all things, is to Abide.”

Dean recites it on autopilot, juice dotted against chalkboard-grey.

Sam’s blood hums strange and he can't catch his air right, it feels like his mind is singing.

“M’just fucking with you,” Sam says, too loud, and Dean’s fists fall forward, smash against claret.

“M’not gonna make you kneel and soap man,” Sam continues.

“Dad’s not around to hear you.”

Dean makes some kind of affirmative noise and his color lessens.

“Wouldn't’ve been able to anyway,” Dean says, soft like Sam’s gotta strain to hear.

“I don't know _prime,_ ” Sam spits, just to watch Dean flinch.

They're not supposed to use officials unless they're in the presence of the Greater Harmony but sometimes Sam likes to watch Dean squirm and he can't rightly say why.

“Don't think you're even growing anymore,” Sam says, and just like that, Sam’s got his brother back.

“Stopped right where I needed to,” Dean says, eyes crinkled. “Guess some people gotta keep going until they're alright.”

Dean’s gaze flits over his body, cursory glance of brother, and Sam’s skin heats up.

“Stretched out like a pole and twice as long, Sammy,” Dean remarks.

He comes to the last of the harvest and reaches above the burlap sack to tie off the top end with twine.

Sam moves on automatic, shifts to help his brother lug the bag down from the table to the floor.

Sam’s bare feet skid on linoleum and Dean grunts in surprise.

“Shoes,” Dean huffs, and Sam cuffs the back of his brother’s head, just because he can.

Dean’s eyes blink hazy and he elbows Sam in the ribs when Sam’s not looking, too focused on the bare sprawl of toes lined with dirt.

“Meeting’s coming up besides,” Sam says, and Dean blinks before he reaches down to unlace his own boots.

“Button up then,” Dean says, and Sam reaches up automatically to close the ones he always loosens at the tip of his neck.

“You got stains on your shirt,” Sam says, tongue in cheek, and the noise Dean makes sounds like distress.

“Corner’a Hell,” Dean curses, and Sam huffs in surprise.

Dean’s got a piss poor mouth, not as bad as Sam’s ever was; Dean’s never been as angry as Sam knows how to be.

Still, the older Sam got, the more Dean worked to clean up his ways, and he's pretty good about himself now.

Except for that mouth of his. That's a sin that Dean’s gonna share penance for til the end of time.

“Look, s’not bad,” Sam offers, and Dean raises his brows.

“You still got on Adolescent,” Dean grits out, and Sam’s got the burn to punch his brother right out, bloom claret to match the juice.

“Dad’s gonna be piss mad,” Dean says, but the center bell is tolling and they've run out of time.

“C’mon then,” Dean says, but Sam’s reaching up behind him, unhooks grey from the peg in the wall.

“Can’t tell if you wear the jacket,” Sam says, so smug he hasn't got the right to be.

Dean’s already stuffing his arms through the sleeves, little-boy thorough.

Sam glances down at Dean’s naked feet, dust-tan, always more gently colored than Sam.

Sam wonders if his brother got that from his mother’s people.

Fair-haired as they were, even though Dad only brings her picture out on her Advent, creased at the edges and burnt in one corner.

The sun is setting; burnt sienna of dusk.

Town’s a few miles off and it’s fairly big; it’s about fifteen out from the City itself.

Elder’s letting Sam visit, more and more, even when he's not just headed to the school there.

Dean’s pretty sure that his head’s swelling too big for his body, but Sam maintains that Dean’s just jealous.

Dean’s not partial to book-learning anyhow, would rather have his hands deep in oil, or a woman, for that matter.

Not that it's allowed, besides.

Elder would know if anyone was fornicating, and the downfall would be swift and harsh.

Sam’s cock jumps between his legs at the thought and he wills it back into submission.

They don't make a sound as they pad over grass; it tickles the soles of his feet; Sam’s always loathed the feeling.

Garden’s off to the left, although it's been big enough to yield a sizable crop ever since Sam was five.

It's a bit too warm out for jackets, but Sam knows it'll cool down with the loss of the sun, and harvest is just around the corner.

It's dead silent; Sam can think of a thousand and one things he'd like to tell his brother right now.

Talking is forbidden at Meeting time unless it's in response to Elder and Sam’s always been good at following the rules that suit him.

Problem is; Dean indulged him too much as a child, answered all his questions out the side of his split-mouth youth, and now Sam can't seem to keep still.

Children flock ahead of the rest; pale yellow of immaturity.

They’re better behaved than Sam and they cling to the hands of their elder siblings, yellow to blue to red and Dean grins up at him, stretches out one hand in mockery.

Sam’s mouth is halfway to open before he remembers, and Dean smiles broad and bends down, sweeps Sarah Parker into his arms as she makes an uncoordinated dash for the Centre.

Sarah’s colorless and yellow, golden hair twisted into two short braids down the small of her back. Her younger brother, _secondary,_ Sam reminds himself, is still too young for Meeting and is back with the other infants in the square.

Sarah’s whining soundlessly and Sam can barely get over that; her ability to shut off her noise like a trip-wire.

Dean rubs flat hands over her belly and Sarah’s eyes squint with mirth.

She stops wriggling long enough to rest small hands on Dean’s shoulders and peer up at Sam.

Sam glances away because he knows Elder’ll be setting up by now, benevolent eyes at the amassed. Meeting’s only strict in about two ways, but Sam doesn’t think that anyone who has lived here all their life could be bothered by it.

Sarah’s face scrunches up; Sammy’s ignoring her, and Dean huffs out a surprised breath at the grip she’s got on his hair.

Sam stretches out his arms with false reluctance, and she bats at Dean’s ear to crawl into Sam’s space.

She likes Dean better, always has, and Sam can understand why. Dean’s good with kids in a way that Sam has no understanding for.

Dean winds them up, hands fluttering with some kind of magical surety that Sam doesn’t possess. Sam’s careful, porcelain-in-the-rain cautious, because he doesn’t wanna be responsible for something with that much propensity to break.

Sarah’s head lolls on his neck and Sam spans one large hand against the lemon of her spine.

Sarah’s mother is mixed in with the rest of the Adults, piecemeal-black, and Sam thinks the colors become less striking with age.

“The Harmony honors Your presence here today,” Elder begins, and Sarah’s hand tightens, blush-pink against Adolescent.

“And Within the Harmony You are beginning, middle and end,” Sam replies, fragile loop from childhood.

Sarah untucks thumb from mouth to rattle along, and Dean glances from her to Sam with no small amount of glee.

Sam shifts her to his other hip and nudges his brother forward; Dean’s out of formation.

Smaller children, Beginnings, are permitted to be carried by those older than them, but the loose semi-circle is color-coordinated.

Light to Dark and Sam’s not exactly inconspicuous; he's around 6’4 and growing steadily.

He's not supposed to know his height but Dean used to measure him when he was younger and Sam’s never stopped, nudges Dean up against the wall adjoining their kitchen to measure him, too.

Dean flushes when he hears how tall he is, sizes himself up against Dad and the other men.

Dean’s slight of frame, heavy-lidded eyes and swollen mouth.

Sam’s packing on pounds faster than Dean and the Greater Harmony combined can feed him, but Dean’s gonna be the one to get himself in trouble.

Sarah twitches and Sam pets absently at her hair.

Dean blanches and he squeezes Sam’s bicep before he makes his way backwards, meets the fringe of grey just before it melds to red.

Elder’s voice trembles and Sam misses the next cue.

-

Once upon a time, Sam had a mother.

She would've been the homemaker of their Smaller Harmony, and Sam dreams about her once a week, without fail.

Dean has the nightmares but Sam’s dreams are vivid-free, tow-headed and spring-bright.

Sam can see the high arch of what must've been his nursery.

He can't recall the premise, but there’s a mural on his wall.

It's off to the left side of his crib; you couldn't see it unless you were standing fully in his room.

Sam’s read the Jungle Book, cover to cover; Dean read a page a night until Sam knew how to sleep alone.

Mowgli’s slender and compact, Tarzan of his own breed.

Sam doesn't believe in omens but Dean does and Dad subscribes to them.

-

Sam’s on his way to meet with Elder when Dad comes home, earthy and damp, mouth set in a line.

Sam’s never seen his father smile, not fully.

It's not something that irks him, used to bother him in that fleeting way, but now Sam glances up at the motionless quirk of his father’s face and laces his boots up.

“Need something?” Sam asks, and his father scrubs one hand over his face, callus catching on dead-sea salt and grey.

“Watch it,” John says, and Sam snorts before he can find it in himself to care.

“Ain’t said anything yet,” Sam says, and John unbuckles his toolbelt, mostly silent in the dead air of the afternoon.

John’s just driven back in from town; he’s a contractor and he’s been remodeling a house for a couple that’s expecting triplets.

John’s nails are caked and Sam follows the brown line of them down his father’s arm.

“You got the kinda mouth I shoulda beat outta you,” John says, and Sam’s taken aback; his foot falls uselessly against carpeting.

John was a Marine, sometime before the Harmony and Sam’s mother spitfire-roasting, but John’s never said anything like that, not to either of them.

“Come again?” Sam says, and he’s standing, proud inches above his own father.

_You are loaned this life; take care that collection does not come due prematurely_

Sam’s conscience sounds like Elder, Meeting-hour of the Greater Harmony, and he shakes it loose stubbornly.

“You got something to say to me boy,” John says, whip-sharp and twice as painful, “you come here and you say it to my face.”

It’s too calm for this, too eerie in the midday sun; Beginners are still scrawling at ABC’s on chalkboard squares.

John’s got paint under his nails, slim-green of the forest and honeyed brown.

Sam takes a deep breath and ignores the wobble in his chest that stems from the effort, collapses his own lungs against the words he’d rather say.

“I need to get to a meeting with Elder, sir,” Sam says carefully, and John’s eyes are mud-brown, blink lazily at Sam’s sudden reign on his own emotions.

“You gonna be late?” John asks, crosses past the sink to get to the fridge, cool-dirty fingers reaching just inside for the beer he’s permitted as soon as the sun climbs under the horizon.

John’s unflappable when it comes to rules, at least those he considers of the utmost importance, and Sam watches his father’s hand twitch on the bottle-seal.

“Not if I go now,” Sam says, the _if you let me go_ left unspoken.

“Don’t you--” John begins, and he catches his tongue, straightens up even though all Sam can see of his father is the slope of his spine.

“Keep your head on straight,” John improvises, and Sam runs one hand over his collar, claret bleeding into place around his neck.

Sam’s heels click together when he turns and John curses low under his breath as his beer tumbles from his grip and collects wetly on the floor.

-

Sam first met Elder when he was four.

He’s got earlier memories of the man, but four is the age that makes the most sense for his story, and that’s the one he provides.

He’s riding high on Dean’s back, fists tangled in his brother’s hair.

Dean’s hair is growing long, scrolling down his neck and disappearing into the ample blue collar of Childhood.

Sam’s outgrowing Beginner’s yellow and they’re stitching his special; Dean stays up late and tears seams, fingers pin pricked with blood blisters.

“Hello Samuel,” Elder says, and his face is not exactly kind.

Sam can recall an earlier time, Elder’s mouth was grim and his teeth sharp. How he carried the dead weight of Sam’s father, Dean’s hand tucked into a graying one.

“Sammy,” Sam says, and Dean hitches him up higher, mutters “legs tight Sammy, don’ fall.”

“How are you,” Elder says, same blank features, as if he’s holding himself righteous for the blind he leads.

Dean hisses under his breath and Elder’s gaze flickers down to Dean.

Dean’s bottom lip is bitten raw; Sam’s got no sense of his own strength and he’s demanding in that way only a child can be.

There is no world but Dean.

“Loosen up Sammy,” his father says, and Sam’s legs sharpen on Dean’s underdeveloped hips, and he uses Dean’s shoulders to drag himself up higher.

“We gonna talk about my mama,” Sam says, and Dean chokes and Dad makes some kind of warble in his throat and Elder’s mouth bends, fragile-thin.

“Probably,” Elder says, and if nothing else, Sam can trust that Elder will keep his word.

Fourteen years later; Sam meets with Elder alone, more than John ever did, more regularly than his brother.

Elder’s home is located in the Centre, which makes sense to Sam. It’s easily accessible, but other than its location, it’s rather unremarkable.

Elder’s home is blank and listless; Sam can count the number of personal artifacts on one hand.

Elder takes a photograph with the Greater Harmony once a year, and the photos are arranged in an ever expanding collage on the wall above the mantle.

Sam keeps his hands behind his back as he pursues, lips thinned, rolls back to ‘83 and looks for his brother.

Dean’s sickly in yellow and his eyes are luminous, neck starved.

Sam’s colorless, asleep in his brother’s arms; John’s around.

“Never changes Sam,” Elder says, and Sam turns, neck slips to the side. “That would matter if I was checking, Elder,” Sam says, and Elder laughs, brittle-bark and wind.

“You’re never checking; that’s right, always looking.” Sam hums and leans back against the corner of an armchair, nondescript black that Sam inadvertently ignores, every time.

“School,” Elder says, hair graying at a rate that Sam can’t keep up with, no matter his effort.

Elder’s in black, floss-thin chain running around his neck and disappearing under the collar of his throat.

Sam’s never seen what lies on the other end, but it’s probably sentimental, even though Elder doesn’t lend himself to that line of thinking.

_The one true God leads you to look deeper within yourself; He’s already provided, after all_

“Top of my class,” Sam recites absently, and Elder gives an imitation of a smile, the same as he once gave Sam all those years ago.

“Well then,” Elder continues, “what’s your favorite subject?”

Sam likes to play this game. His area of interest changes from week to week, and he never tires of toying with Elder, new answer for every question.

Elder’s eyes sparkle with some variation of mirth and Sam’s been waxing poetic about the medical field for years now.

“Botany,” Sam supplies, and Elder doesn’t look up at Sam, walks crookedly over to his own chair and lowers his aging body into it.

“Cellular respiration,” Sam says, crossing his legs at the ankles.

“Who else is gonna take care of you in your old age?”

Elder doesn’t blink and Sam’s vision greys at the edge.

-

Dean’s a lot like John, but Sam figures his brother is probably more like the mother that Sam can’t quite catch a grasp on.

Dean’s never been to the City, asks Sam about it every time he travels on business for Elder.

“Why don’t you just come next time,” Sam grumbles; he’s sweaty and hot and he’s in a physics tournament that he’s mostly decimating.

“Wouldn’t wanna distract you,” Dean says sourly, and Dean’s scrubbing his hands free of motor oil probably more vigorously than is required.

“Fuck you,” Sam answers easily, and Dean’s shoulders tremble.

It’s not like John never curses; even the Harmony can’t train it out of him, the need for the release.

Dean tries hard not to use it; seems blessed-thankful to the Elder for even allowing the faux-pas to slip.

“You’re a piece’a work Sammy, you know that?” Sam does know it, he does, but Dean lifts raw-red hands out of the scalding water and Sam takes a step forward.

“Dad works doubles to send you to that damn school,” Dean says, voice rising, “and you ain’t even got the--got the decency to tell him thanks.”

Sam reels backwards and his lower back clips the dining room table but Dean’s not slowing down; his hands are still as vibrant as Sam’s collar.

“Who d’you think sews up all those damn holes in your jeans,” Dean says, distracted, and the implication in the air is liquid (the jeans I don’t own, I can’t wear, I don’t understand).

“Elder pays,” Sam says, more firmly than he’s got the right to sound.

“Sure, sure kid,” Dean says, “Elder pays, makes sure you got what you need, checks in on you,” Dean says.

“Who d’you think’s gonna look after you overseas, when you get into that fancy physics group you been working so hard for?”

Sam’s mind flits to the IYPT, seventeen problems he’s had a year to examine, to research.

Dean’s walking closer, and Sam reaches out for his hands, just like he’s four again and Dean’s got something that he won’t share with Sam.

“C’mon Dean,” Sam says carefully, “you’re right,” Sam admits, and it’s not even half a lie.

“C’mere,” Sam coaxes, and his big brother’s shoulders sag, grey hanging loosely around his neck. There are bags under Dean’s eyes that Sam hasn’t noticed, and the drawstring around his pants is tighter than usual.

“Look,” Sam says, cups Dean’s chin in one warm palm and Dean topples forward so quickly that Sam grunts and braces Dean’s weight on one leg in a last ditch effort.

“I can’t even cook for myself,” Sam laughs, wet and prideless.

Dean’s neck is limp and it takes a second for Sam to realize his brother is unconscious.

Sam bends both knees, one still bracketed by Dean’s weight and lifts. Sam grunts when he realizes that Dean’s lighter than he expected, even more slight than years past.

Sam’s hands grow unnaturally hot where they’re pressed against his brother’s open body, and he doesn’t remember how to pray.

-

Sam is almost seven months old when John meets Elder.

They’re staying with a man Sam can’t recall meeting (which bothers him more than the actual stories he’s heard) named Pastor Jim, in a church that Sam would never step foot in were he so inclined.

Dean’s tired and all Sam does is cry and John’s tumbling to pieces, probably.

John’s got too great of an affinity for Jack and a penchant for self-deprecation to leave their family intact.

All of Dean’s clothes still smell like ash and cinder, and Sam’s not old enough for anything to have been salvaged.

Dean’s living off of weenies and bread and Sam’s still nursing and won’t drink formula.

They’re going to die, in short.

Dad meets Elder at an open-air market. Elder’s looking to expand his land; the Greater Harmony is growing too big to be contained within the land it’s been allotted.

Dad’s buying vegetables; Pastor Jim sent him out with some money and a list, and he’s got it in his head that two little boys can’t survive on the want of a mother.

“You doing alright?” Elder asks, knowing in that way that unnerves and soothes Sam in equal measures. Dad’s fourteen seconds into telling the man to fuck off (Sam-same) and Elder tips his head down inquiringly.

“My wife’s dead,” John says, and Elder’s face goes whiskey-blank in half the time it takes Dad to say the words.

“Well then,” Elder says, “what’re we doing here?”

 

**II. His Idle Hands Let Me Inside**

-

It’s dark, but not so dark that Sam can’t make out the bruises lining Dean’s throat.

Dean makes a noise and his hands flutter around his neck so strangely that Sam momentarily pauses in his perusal.

“Stop it,” Sam hisses, and Dean’s hands fall limp like he can hear whatever the fuck Sam’s saying.

Sam feels a little sick as he unbuttons the top of his brother’s shirt, grey all the way up and under his chin.

The bruises tangle further, purple and blue-black and then Sam’s ripping, every last button scattered and lost to the floorboards; Sam’ll hunt them down later.

Dean’s chest is concave and there are fingerprints lining his ribs; which Sam runs his hands down, tortoise shell-slick.

“Okay, okay, please,” Dean says, and then he’s silent, unnaturally so.

Sam’s hands are trembling as he slips one, two fingers underneath his brother’s waistband and Dean’s whole body stiffens and his eyes tremble awake.

Sam jerks away like he’s been stabbed and Sam can make out the whites of Dean’s eyes; his brother’s chest heaves up and down; he’s hyperventilating.

“Where’s--Sammy where’s my fucking--S-Sam!” Dean screams, and Sam has to fight the urge to cover his ears like a Beginner.

Dean makes to sit up and he’s orthostatic; Sam’s brain supplies unhelpfully, and his brother attempts to blink himself free of dizziness. Sam curls one sturdy forearm around Dean’s waist and Dean settles into it instinctively.

“What the _fuck_ is this,” Sam says; that’s not his voice coloring the air, because _Sam_ doesn’t sound like he knows what death is.

“This what you up to while I’m at school?” Sam says, and Dean doesn’t have any flush to his cheeks; he’s swaying with every dip in motion.

Sam stands, backs away from his brother before he breaks him.

“You got--fuck you Dean, you got some damn nerve,” Sam says, and Dean’s eyes darken.

“Like you aren’t up there swinging your goddamn dick around--” Dean threatens, too big for his shrunken body; Sam’s been bigger than his brother for years, looms heavy and threatening.

“Don’t look like _that_ though,” Sam says, and Dean makes some kind of wounded animal cry and Sam’s blood is high and the air is filled with the sounds of cracking glass.

Dean draws knees to his chest as their compound explodes into darkness; bulbs shatter until the one in their room hisses and rains down between them; Sam’s fists doubled into a fight.

“What the fuck--Sam, calm down man,” Dean says, “there’s something wrong--” Dean says, and Sam’s sure his brother is right.

Something is definitely wrong, and it’s spelled out real clear on his brother’s body.

-

Sam lost his virginity in the Ford that Elder gave him to drive down to the City when he turned sixteen.

It’s to get him from Point A to Point B

_I’m trusting you with this Sam, this isn’t a task I take lightly_

It’s big, big enough to fit Sam and all his gangly limbs, and apparently large enough for Elisa Connors to suck his dick and then twirl ‘round and sit down on it.

Sam’s tall enough that she can ride reverse cowgirl and he can still see clear over top of her head.

He’s still not quite sure he did right by her, left bruises in the shape of his hand on milk-cream hips, bounced her up and down on his dick til she was crying, fat-snot tears and whines.

Sam spends more time than he’d like to admit examining whether or not he’s a good man. Wondering if anyone would call him _selfless._

Sam’s got a big mouth at the best of times, can’t quit fighting with his Dad, snapping with Dean over not-shit.

His mouth is downright filthy; Elder would have him publicly punished if he could hear; if he knew.

“Come on, c’mon, come on my dick,” forces her down til she’s squirting, “that’s right sweetheart, fuck yourself, fucking come on, don’t need my help, climbed on all by yourself, didn’t you?”

She comes so wet around his dick that he smells like her for the whole ride home, pussy and saline; her number pressed into his pants like he’s got a phone to be calling her on.

Sam loses his virginity a second time with the other decent-looking guy on his physics team.

Derek something or other; Sam remembers Elisa because they’re still friends, but Derek’s still not walking right after Sam, and that’s not for lack of him trying.

Sam can still see over Derek’s head, easy, but Sam takes him ass up on leather seats, round swell of flesh and sweeping freckles that Sam doesn’t examine.

Sam’s spine-rigid at the careful slot of his dick in between cheeks and Derek ruts back, mouth propped open on whimpers.

Sam’s always liked to conduct an impartial experiment.

-

Sam ambushes John when John’s plastered, well past the Harmony limit; Sam’s not gonna say shit, and Dean’s just gonna tuck him into bed, beg Sam’s help

_C’mon man, he’s deadweight like this_

Even though Sam can just about pick him up flat now, carries Dean like he’s next to nothing, besides.

Dean’s not home; he was at work earlier, in town to fix up cars at the little chop-shop that runs up just before the City.

He’s meeting with Elder now, and Sam sinks down next to his father, plucks the Fat Tire right out of his hands and drops it to roll on the table.

“Sonova-” John hisses, but Sam keeps his father seated with a hand to thigh.

“Get offa me Sam,” John says, but it lacks the bite of sobriety and Sam’s face twists.

“You know where your son is?” Sam asks; it’s a test, but Sam always knows.

“Get your hands offa me,” John says, voice thickening with the attempt to clean himself up.

“You been the one here,” Sam yells, voice sliding down into that register he hates, the one that makes it difficult to breathe.

“You’n Dean and Elder sent me to this damn school--so I can help out around here, know some shit, and you--” Sam’s frightened, and it almost knocks the wind out of his sails.

“Who the hell’s been watching after him?!”

John sits up and suddenly he’s looming, and Sam remembers that John is never and has never been passive; his father’s hand closes around his throat.

“I been watching. I take care of him,” John says, jostling Sam with every brutal jerk of his arm.

“He looks--” John says, and Sam can’t breathe well enough to speak but he knows what his father’s about to say, what neither of them has ever given voice to but probably will, now that Dean’s not here.

Sam reaches his hands up to locate the pressure point on John’s wrist and twist free (same as he was once taught), and John gurgles out a laugh, sounds like his throat’s beer-clogged.

“Looks jus’ like her,” John sputters, and Sam groans, air-loss and horror.

“M’always--I’m careful with him,” John continues; talking to himself, murdering his youngest.

“He stays--he’s close Sammy; he’s home.”

Sam’s face is burnt and he’s probably popped some blood vessels but John’s hand is gonna leave a forevermark.

John’s chin comes to rest on his neck and he manages to turn, faces Sam fully since this all began.

Sam’s vibrating with anger; Dean’s due home any minute and they can’t let him see this, however bad it’s gotten; Dean’s to be spared.

Dean’s the only bit of goodness they’ve got left, though they’re sure to fuck it to pieces.

John recoils abruptly; shot to his chest and Sam’s still staring hard at his father, eyes granite and unblinking.

“Sam--Jesus _Christ_ Sam--” John says, stone-cold sober in the flick of a wrist and Sam’s heart is hammering violently because that’s the antithesis of everything the Harmony stands for--not that Sam gives a shit--and then Dean’s key is twisting in the lock.

They both turn to watch Dean enter, suspended animation. Dean’s head is dipped to his collarbone, fine tremble of both hands as he turns, struggles to latch the door and lock it simultaneously.

Sam rises and comes up behind his brother, raises one palm to shut the door entirely and latches it while Dean twists the lock to the left with a single click.

Dean shudders and leans back into Sam’s broader frame and Sam can’t meet any Winchester eyes.

-

“You just--so what the hell do you do out there?”

Derek’s unhelpful; asking dumbass questions when he should be studying up on conservation of energy. It’s an easy enough concept, and the only one that Sam thinks Derek can handle at the moment, due to the fact that Sam’s apparently broken him, via dick.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam says.

He’s fumbling over his copy of _On Composite Models in the Theory of Elementary Particles_ , and his head’s starting to give him trouble.

Sam’s Advent is tomorrow, and he’s got to go through the ceremony of Emergent (which isn’t nearly as exciting as it was when he was transitioning from Childhood to Adolescent) and Dean crawled into bed last night as soon as he got home, head dipped low.

Sam reached out for him last night, as usual, and John cleared his throat once and Sam’s hand fell limply down to his side.

Dean was gone when Sam woke up the next morning, breakfast cooling in the oven, and Sam’s favorite mug is now clipped into shards for the trash; Sam doesn’t know his own strength.

“I’m talking--see the gluon is basically--look, you know how when you separate a quark from a quark, right--” Sabrina’s saying, and Sam’s barely hanging his attention on her.

“Confinement,” Sam snaps, drawing close to his wits end. “Gluon field, another quark pair, binds ‘em into hadrons. Keep going,” Sam says, and Sabrina’s used to Sam’s emotional outbursts and clears her throat.

“No really man,” Derek says, “you guys like, worship the corn or something?”

Sam’s about fifteen seconds away from smashing Derek’s nose down onto granite, even though they’re in lab after school and they still have half an hour left but there’s no way in hell that Sam’s gonna make it today.

“You live in the same fucking state man,” Sam says, cursing comes easy when he’s surrounded by it all the time; it’s hard to drive back to the Harmony and curb himself; turn the lights to dim.

That’s another thing he’s got to bring up to his brother.

College. He’s pretty sure that Elder wants him to continue his education but Sam’s not so keen on coming back every holiday, every weekend, reporting home like a fucking Labrador Retriever.

Elder can’t even blame him.

It’s his fault Sam’s this way.

That Sam doesn’t know how to be content.

Sam won’t leave the Harmony without Dean, though.

Dean’d never survive it.

_Like you’d be much better_

Derek’s tapping his pencil against Sam’s temple and Sam snatches the thing out of mid-air and breaks it clean, one-hand.

Derek’s eyes darken hungrily and Sam entertains it for a second; Derek’s eager ass, the way he spreads so sweet for Sam’s dick.

Sam’s cock jumps once in his jeans and he huffs with impatience.

“It’s not like that you ass, just a bunch of people living together. Believe in the same thing.”

Sam stands, grabs his book and Sabrina scrunches up her nose at him; she’d be cute if her glasses weren’t five inches thick for ‘extra strength.’

“It’s like,” Sam says slowly, “like bringing church home with you.”

-

Sam probably breaks a couple of traffic laws but he’s straining out of his own skin and his hands are so hot they’re burning his wheel and Sam hisses on the turn down the road to the Harmony; his palms are singed.

Sam comes to a halt just out front of their compound, it’s a two-bedroom thing; he and Dean have been sharing ever since Dean was four, Dean tucked Sam in next to him, washed him up in the adjoining bathroom.

Sam knows he’s supposed to return the truck to Elder’s lot and the head back here on foot, but Sam can’t shake the feeling that he’s pressed for time.

Sam’s tumultuous day by day and right now he feels downright chaotic.

Sam jiggles the knob on habit before he lets himself in, and when the door swings open Sam pockets his key and strides in, brow furrowed.

He’s about to call out for his brother when he hears voices, and his lips drop shut.

“It’s not--” his brother’s saying, “we don’t meet til tomorrow,” Dean says, and Sam sets his bag down carefully, quietly.

“I’ll come--I’ll come early, huh?” Dean says, and the other voice responds.

“My boy,” the voice replies, and Sam’s wasting precious seconds with confusion over hearing Elder’s voice in their compound.

Elder doesn’t visit.

Not ever. Not even when they first arrived; Sam and Dean strapped into one seat together, the passenger of the Impala, car-seats nonexistent.

“Let me see you,” Elder says, and Sam can’t shake the strangeness of the situation.

He’s never heard Elder hold that much emotion in his voice--and it’s not exactly emotion either, more like the grey-area parody of one.

Sam keeps still; he can’t say for sure what will happen if he exposes himself.

There’s shuffling and Sam figures he can creep forward, peek around the corner and see if Dean’s confessing, maybe they’re having some kind of abbreviated Meeting.

Sam’s long, takes him one and a half steps to be able to crane his neck around the partition and then he’s jerking his full body back soundlessly, bile actually swimming in his mouth.

Sam swallows it back down so forcefully that he gags silently at the burn and flinches.

Dean’s on his knees.

Sam’s brother is crouched low, mouth stuffed full of cock, naked save the open dangle of his Emergent jacket, loose at the collar.

One of Elder’s hands is buried in his brother’s hair and the other is locked so tight around Dean’s throat that Sam wonders listlessly how Dean can be taking that much dick and still breathe.

Sam’s floating along in some kind of no-space and then there’s a smooth crack, sounds like wood splintering.

There’s a gust of wind, so violent that Sam feels like it ought to have knocked him back a step, but he remains standing, utterly unfazed.

The bulbs are creaking again and Sam tips his head above him, watches dispassionately as the glass overhead begins to fissure before his eyes.

Hairline fractures and then they pause, suspended in formation.

The wind’s still tripping throughout the house; Dean must’ve left a window open.

Sam can hear it rattle pots and pans; the saucer that Sam left in the sink this morning.

“Looks like my cue, sweetheart,” Elder says, feral-sweet, and Sam propels himself backwards, reaches blindly behind him for the coat closet that they’ve never actually used.

Sam clicks the door shut in front of him, breathes heavily and tries to adjust to the pitch before his eyes.

Wind’s howling and Sam searches for some semblance of calm and the bulb shatters to smithereens as the front door clicks quiet behind Elder.

 

**III. I Cannot Be Crucified**

-

Once, when Sam was five, John carried him on his shoulders all day, took him to work, taught him how to use a saw to slice neatly through wood.

Sam figured he wanted to be a carpenter.

Sam came back home that same day and met with Elder, Dean beside him, pretty face blinking wide.

Dean’s lashes were full and wet and Sam reached for his hand, pudgy fingers alongside rails.

Elder asked if John would be alright with testing Sam; they always did so to ascertain whether or not a child’s education would be better served off of Harmony lands.

Dean’s eyes were blank and cumbersome in unison, sharp head bobbing from Elder to John to Sammy in record time.

“Dean,” Elder said, mouth wry, “can you bring your brother here?”

Dean’s hand was so tight, bruised him for days after, and Sam’s a fucking fool for never having realized.

-

“He knows you were here,” Dean says listlessly, over the dinner Sam’s brother made, after Sam left and came back at the time he was supposed to, dropped the truck off like Elder hadn’t seen the damn thing lingering out front, engine still purring.

Sam’s up so quickly he startles himself; his chair flies backwards into the wall and splits into pieces.

Sam didn’t think he shoved it away from himself that strongly but it’s broken now and Dean’s looking up at him with those dime-piece eyes, all heart and no sense.

Dean’s mouth is raw; he’s been tugging on the skin like taffy

_And sucking Elder’s Holy Fucking Dick_

Sam thinks nastily, and he’s shuddering so hard his dishes are clattering about beside his plate even though Sam’s not touching a damn thing.

“Sam. Sammy. Breathe man, c’mon, breathe,” Dean says, and he’s so pale; he hasn’t touched a damn thing on his plate.

Dean’s fork is speared through with chicken and Sam leans forward, smudges one thumb over the deep black hang of Dean’s exhausted eyes.

“Oh fuck,” Sam says, low-grade voice that doesn’t belong in their home.

“Sam,” Dean says, and he rises to stand and then topples right back down, face slack with fear.

“I gotta--I’m gonna need to kill him,” Sam says, and his voice is full of wonderment rather than the conviction he needs it to own.

“You’re gonna sit your ass right back down,” Dean says, voice curdled.

“You’re gonna forget what the fuck you _think_ you saw and you’re gonna finish your dinner and go to bed,” Dean says, hands wandering aimlessly over his arms.

Sam rounds the table so quickly that Dean doesn’t have a chance, and Sam’s hauling him up by the upper arm, willfully ignoring Dean’s cry of pain.

“How long’s he been touching you,” Sam spits, mouth dry.

Dean’s mouth clams up but his eyes are alive enough.

Sam shakes Dean with both hands wrapped around his brother’s biceps, and Dean’s eyes roll back in his head a little.

“Dean!” Sam says, loosening his grip just enough to take hold of Dean by the nape of his neck.

“You fucking--tell me, goddammit,” Sam says, voice swelling.

“You were four,” Dean hisses, “happy? Fuck, you were around four; I think,” Dean says, brow scrunching as he calculates.

Sam laughs hysterically and Dean’s face goes from thoughtful to devoid.

Dean’s measuring his--his molestation against Sam’s age; like Sam’s an inadvertent timepiece for it.

“Never again,” Sam swears, and Dean’s mouth twists up, smile.

“It’s not like what you think,” Dean says, earnest. “M’not scared. He’s not--Elder’s always careful.”

Dean nods his head, and Sam thinks he’s about to pass out.

“He--I need it.” Sam’s fingers tighten imperceptibly and Dean bows his head a fraction. “You seen what---you know what my face looks like,” Dean says, and Sam’s bewildered.

“Our mother?” Sam says in disbelief, and Dean colors so stunningly that Sam’s dick betrays him and firms right on up, like it’s decided to take a vacant seat on this crashing ride.

“Pretty,” Sam breathes; he gets it now. “You’re fucking beautiful,” Sam says plainly, no shame in verbalizing a truth that’s never been a secret.

“He fucking it right outta you,” Sam says bitterly, and Dean’s face falls.

“He didn’t--Sam calm down,” Dean begs, and Sam’s _trying,_ how can Dean be missing that?

“He didn’t know about me, not when he found Dad,” Dean explains, so patient that Sam aches a little in sympathy.

“I wasn’t, fuck Sammy, I wasn’t smart like you.” Sam hasn’t loosened his grip another inch but Dean attempts to stumble backwards anyway.

“I’m not goin’ to school, nowhere but here,” Dean says, and it’s lacking the bitterness that laces Sam’s every word.

“Harmony’s good for me,” Dean explains, “been good for you too,” Dean allows.

“Don’t--don’t go fucking this all up,” Dean says desperate, and Sam knows Dean wants to add more to that statement

_For yourself, for Dad_

But Dean can tell Sam’s had it up to here with this particular strain of bullshit.

“No,” Sam says, final, and Dean stiffens.

“No what, Sammy,” Dean says, voice loose, and Sam crushes his brother to his chest, strong-armed, and tilts Dean’s chin up and back with the other hand.

Sam doesn’t quite know the answer, but Dean’s looking up at him, split-broken and liquid, so close that Sam’s shaking with how vibrant his brother is, despite (regardless) of the way he’s been hung out to dry.

Dean’s blinking slowly, probably growing lightheaded with the crushing grip Sam’s got on his smaller body, and then Sam slots his mouth over his brother’s in what has to be the top ten stupidest decisions he’s ever made.

Dean wilts and Sam keeps his hand twisted high in his brother’s hair.

He pulls back for a breath and Dean’s eyes are pleasantly vacant, and his mouth firms in a grin, saucy, like Dean’s working the corners Sam drives by on his way home sometimes.

“Fuck that, fuck you,” Sam says, breathless, and Dean’s face doesn’t break.

“Look at me,” Sam pleads, and Dean’s eyes shift in his direction.

“What do you want Sam?” Dean says, quiet, and Sam does the only thing he can think of, second worst decision of his life.

He swings Dean up into his arms and the complacency with which his brother accepts it sends a spark of fear stuttering down his spine.

He deposits Dean carefully onto their bed and Dean’s sitting up, shrugging out of his clothes so quickly that Sam slams the door shut behind him in apprehension.

“Dean?” Sam says, vibrating so hard with his blood-ache dick and fury that his vision is blinking in and out.

“Gotta tell me something Sammy,” Dean says, all soft and chill-sweet.

Sam thinks _fuck you,_ again, and wonders if that’s what he’s gonna do. If he’s gonna fuck his own brother tonight, body trim and slutwide.

Dean’s legs curve gentle, and he’s peppered with freckles from his time outside.

He’s looking up at Sam with doe-lashes, all blank innocence, nose sloped downward in a graceful arch.

It burns Sam alive to look at him; to understand that he can’t tell Dean anything about himself that wouldn’t reaffirm every lie that Elder’s ever told him.

Ever told the both of them.

“No,” Sam repeats, spits, and Dean’s legs close, dick hanging soft and pink between his legs.

“No?” Dean says, first split sign of confusion on his face.

“M’not--Elder’s the one fucking you like that,” Sam says, and then he lunges forward, situates himself in between Dean’s legs and tugs them open.

Dean lets them fall loose and peers up into Sam’s eyes.

“See, I love you,” Sam says, no trouble here at all; he’s loved his brother all his life and he’ll die with the sentiment spoiling on his lips.

Dean flushes, full-body crimson, and Sam’s dick twitches happy to gain this fact, give it a name.

“You know that,” Sam continues, invigorated. “Whatever else he said,” Sam grits out, deaf-mute to the amount of rage he’s struggling to contain for his brother’s benefit.

“That’s never been a lie,” Sam says, and Dean’s back hits their pillows and Sam scrambles further up to meet Dean’s lips.

“Jesus,” Sam blasphemies, “you’ve always been mine and he fucking _knew_ it,” Sam says, brittle and aware in a way he’s been too caught up to be.

Dean’s neck is blossomed and his jaw is tight.

“C’mon,” Sam prods, reigns himself in.

“You ain’t gotta prove it to me,” Dean says, little malice in his tone.

“Love you too, man,” Dean tries, and then Sam drags his hand forward, smears it over Sam’s blood-heavy dick and Dean’s eyes widen and he whines; so high-soft that Sam’s dick visibly jerks.

“Proving it to myself then,” Sam whispers, and Dean opens his legs wider, thoughtful.

“Gonna let me?” Sam says; he’s gotta know. He’s not taking another damn thing from his brother, not so long as they both live.

“Don’t gotta talk so much,” Dean says, but Sam grabs Dean’s chin, thumb and pointer digging sharp into the untouched skin.

Dean’s covered with bruises, old and new, some scarring, and Sam wants to vomit all over this bedspread; this empty place.

“You with me?” Dean asks, all hopeful and careful like Sam’s breakable. Sam’s got fragile stamped on his person, sure.

“Where else would I be,” Sam says, and it comes out way more sincere than he likes and Dean hikes his legs up to his ears and Sam breathes his last.

Sam’s done fucking around and he dives lower, nips the delicate skin in between Dean’s thighs and Dean sighs, deep from his toes like he’s been waiting.

Sam suctions his mouth to Dean’s hole without preamble; there aren’t words for this besides.

Dean mewls, quiet and shrill and Sam grinds his clothed dick against the plain bedspread and suckles deeper, stabs his tongue as far inside as he can and prods until Dean’s thighs are shaking, damp with sweat.

Sam comes up for air and Dean’s cheeks are rimmed in red.

“What do you want baby,” Sam says, feeling all the more stupid for talking like he thinks, but that pink tint hovers over Dean’s skin again and Sam realizes his brother _likes_ it.

“C’mon sweetheart,” Sam says, louder, shuffles up to his knees and unbuckles himself in the silence.

Sam shoves everything down and off and he’s tugging his shirt over top, and when he meets Dean’s eyes, his brother’s pupils are blown and dark, and his dick’s joined the party, hot and thick against his stomach.

It jerks lazily under Sam’s attentive gaze, darker than Sam’s and slightly curved, dusk-red and growing.

“Huh, baby,” Sam says, and Dean squirms, pretty cock bobbing on air.

“Get--” Dean says, “get inside, c’mon, please Sammy,” Dean says, mouth pink and wet and Sam never had a chance at all.

Sam stands, heads straight for the main hall adjoining their room and rummages through his backpack until he spies the lube that Derek not-so-subtly keeps leaving in his shit, hints for rounds two-three-and four.

When Sam comes back Dean looks less loose and more lost and Sam miscalculates and shoots a glob of lube down his fingers and into the palm of his hand.

Dean looks confused at the sight and Sam cocks his head to the side.

“What’s wrong baby?” Sam asks, and Dean face twists and he nods toward the bottle.

“What’s that,” Dean says stiffly, and Sam grins.

“M’not going in dry Dean,” Sam quips, and Dean’s ears color, but it’s not the full-body affliction that Sam’s coming to love so much.

“We didn’t--I didn’t,” Dean tries, and that’s around all Sam needs to hear. Sam’s unchecked violence on the best of days and he’s got to finish this for his brother so he can do what he never promised he wouldn’t.

He’s kissing his brother again, slanted down low so Dean can reach, and he tucks one finger high into Dean’s ass and Dean’s mouth opens on a slight whine.

Dean tangles his arms around Sam’s neck and Sam grins against Dean’s open mouth, the mewls he can’t contain as he rocks himself to completion on Sam’s index.

“That’s it baby,” Sam says, and then Dean’s kissing him again, hard and breathless.

Sam tucks another finger inside, slants it careful, too impatient to wait, and accidentally brushes against Dean’s prostate without warning.

Dean’s eyes flicker open and he’s panting, eyes wild.

“Sam--Sam,” Dean says, and Sam’s smearing more lube around his ring finger because he’s about to combust if he doesn’t slide home right the fuck now.

Dean opens up gently to the third, wriggles on the knuckles and takes it so sweet that Sam leans lower and bites into the exposed flesh of Dean’s neck.

“God, you’re perfect for me,” Sam breathes, and pulls his fingers free reluctantly, coating his dick and tapping it experimentally against the swollen flush of Dean’s hole.

Dean drags his legs back into place, resting limply over pebbled nipples, and Sam thinks he’s been in love with his brother far past the point of sanity for all his life.

Sam’s inexorable, steady and slow, no-wait, and Dean’s legs widen automatically to accommodate.

Sam’s breathing heavily when his balls brush Dean’s taint and his brother is rose-wine when Sam looks down, big trusting eyes that Sam’s gonna keep earning until he’s grey and dead.

Sam swivels his hips and drags out and back in, hands locked around the backside of Dean’s thighs and his brother shudders and comes all over himself, dick untouched, trembling with aftershocks.

“Oh _fuck,”_ Sam stutters, dumbfounded, because Dean’s still writhing on his dick, spurting in thick waves, covering his own chest and flicking up to his collarbone.

Dean’s whining, high and loud, and Sam quickly leans down to silence his brother with his mouth.

Sam was working on holding on but he’s got no will to keep going, not when his brother just creamed himself at the thick weight of Sam in his ass.

Sam rocks in, once, twice, doesn’t even bother with the slick drag out, and then he’s coming, chest to chest with his brother.

Dean’s come binds them together, cooling and sticky, and Dean’s mouth is raw and painful.

Years later; Sam will mark this as his first crime.

-

It’s ass o’clock when Sam wakes up, world’s still dark and Sam knows that the Greater Harmony won’t be rising for another hour or so.

John’s home, straight to bed with his obligatory bottle of beer.

Dean’s naked and clean next to him; Sam cleaned his brother off sometime before he passed out, and Sam reaches into his closet for red and comes up empty.

Advent's today.

Sam tugs jeans on instead, along with the same flannel he wore yesterday and he stomps into his boots, doesn’t bother with the laces.

He’s whistling when he heads over to Elder’s, hands tucked into his pockets.

Sun’s struggling to peek over the horizon and it’s windy, more so than usual, signs are swinging close-to-violent in the breeze and Sam steps between it, around.

Sam lets himself inside, same as Before, and Elder’s not facing him when Sam comes to a stop in the living room, song dying on his breath.

“I wondered,” Elder says, motionless, hands tucked behind his back, “how long I’d have to do it before you snapped,” Elder says.

Sam’s heart is galloping and Elder’s laughing, suddenly, harshly.

Sam’s never heard that sound before and he’d be frightened if he hadn’t realized that there really isn’t any need, not anymore.

“You did it for you too,” Sam says, just as easy as Elder.

“He’s perfect,” Elder says with a half-shrug; Sam cannot deny.

“Wanted you smart though,” Elder says, thoughtful, “before you found out.”

Elder turns around, and he’s smiling. Sam understands why he never did it before.

You can’t hide that kind of malevolence in his grin. It’s everything Sam’s never understood but always feared.

“All this,” Elder says, “created for you,” he finishes, and Sam doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. What, the Harmony belongs to him?

“Yours,” Elder says, “when the time was right.”

Elder’s eyes flicker, and Sam reels back a step. They flash wheat-gold-onyx and Elder’s laughing, so hard that it hurts Sam’s stomach.

“We’re on face-to-face terms now,” Elder says, and the wind outside is howling; when did everything in Elder’s house start rocking, breaking apart before Sam’s eyes.

“I gotta say,” Elder says, more informal than Sam’s ever witnessed, “like mother, like son,” Elder says, and then Elder’s levitating, no other word for it.

Sam knows it’s him, just as he’s always known a slew of truths.

Elder’s grinning, even though Sam’s got him five feet off the floor and counting, sheer force of will.

“I told him I’d kill you,” Sam says, rage humming so quiet underneath his marrow and blood that Sam’s sure of what he could do with it.

“Better tie up loose ends,” Sam says, and Elder’s scrabbling at his neck, eyes bulging, rivulets of blood collecting around shorn fingernails.

It’s hard to see red on black but Sam thinks that with time it’ll show up nice enough.

 _“There_ he is,” Elder says, and Sam’s more relieved than he’s felt in years. This is what it meant.

“Never yours to touch,” Sam says and Elder swings higher; Sam’s got the crown of his head kissing the low beams of the ceiling.

“Sam!”

Sam’s concentration wavers and then his anger ratchets up tenfold; Dean’s not supposed to see any of this, not until it’s over and done.

Dean’s half dressed when he shuffles into Sam’s view, eyes bright-scared, hands trembling.

He’s got on Sam’s clothes, jeans and flannel too big for him, especially now that Dean’s running so thin from stress.

Still makes Sam’s pants tight in the worst way and Dean glances up at Elder indifferently, but he’s looking at Sam with so much sorrow that Sam stings to see it.

“Go back home,” Sam says shortly, and Dean blinks in surprise. As if he didn’t know what Sam sounded like anymore, not after last night.

“Let him go,” Dean says warily, and Sam laughs, tightens his grip on Elder even though Dean can’t tell.

“He’s never gonna let _you_ go,” Sam says, and Dean ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck. “That’s how--that’s how it’s supposed to be,” Dean says, firm but confused at Sam’s inability to understand.

“This is it, you ass,” Dean says, voice swinging toward loud as Elder begins to tremble.

Sam feels himself rocketing out of the sphere of control and then the glass from three separate windows comes billowing in around them, whether from his wind or his will; Sam can’t tell.

The floor is crystalline-covered; Dean’s side is lacerated and there’s blood pooling on Sam’s brother’s cheek.

“Tell me to do it,” Sam says, helpless. Dean glances from one to the other, Elder’s air is locked away and there’s blood coagulating on his robes, thickening around his feet.

Dean wants to say something; Sam can tell, probably wants to know if this’ll make Sam okay, if Sam can shut himself down, shift to neutral.

Sam hasn’t got the answers and Dean seems to realize that, stands upright.

“Alright,” Dean says, acceptance and permission, and Sam’s about to twist Elder’s neck in mid-air when there’s a struggle.

Sam can’t explain it, it’s like a force of nature is trying to funnel up and out of Elder’s body, thick and viscous, old-age violence that Sam’s never felt in all his life.

Sam only knows that it can’t escape, whatever it is, and he shoves it back down with his mind and the thing screams; Not-Elder opens his mouth wide and there’s a horrific yell like nothing Sam’s ever heard in all his life.

Dean clatters to his knees and Sam snaps his neck decisively.

Sam releases Elder and he tumbles back to the ground, breaks his neck on the descent and Sam wants to pulverize him into dust.

He gets the feeling that he could.

Elder’s corpse begins to tremble with the force of Sam’s want and Sam has to curb it; the lethality of what he can do.

Dean stands, eyes big and clear, and Sam holds out his hand; he’s got Elder’s blood on it and he’s not sure how.

Dean doesn’t flinch, no hesitation, and he curls his body into Sam’s, head tucked against Sam’s shoulder.

Sam nudges Dean ahead of him; out Elder’s front door and everyone’s waking up; it looks like a tornado touched the earth and ripped it to shreds.

Sam’s still not contained; he can feel the poison of himself upon the soil and he thinks that power this tremulous must come with an awful price.

He glances down at Dean’s head, blonde and damp with sweat, and he sees what it’s charging, and he’ll not allow it.

Beginners spill out into the desecration of the sidewalk; they’re always first, followed by mothers, already in funeral-black and counting.

Emergents are late to rise, almost in keeping with Adolescents, and Sam realizes he’s just destroyed a way of life; the only one he’s ever known.

They’re blinking sleepily at him; they think there’s been a natural disaster. They don’t know that Elder’s been slain, for good reason, gargling on his own bloody lies.

They’ll never let Sam explain. Dean will never find it worth the trouble.

Dean’s reading Sam faster than Sam can read himself and Dean’s already wrenching Sam’s body back, yelling _no_ in that voice that should penetrate but nothing ever does, right?

Sarah’s not fully dressed, yellow shirt, cream legs and she’s running from her mother; it’s too early but the storm woke her.

Poison tastes like rust, Sam believes, and the bodies drop to the earth in sync, crumpling down, breaking joints and spines and necks in the crush of their fall.

Sarah stumbles to death, although, to be fair, Sam had already snuffed the lights out prior to impact.

Dean’s screaming, so loud and painful and rainbow dots the earth-soil, the houses hang crooked from where Sam has splintered wood in rage, bent in foundation until the compounds tilt in on one another.

The Harmony is land, far as the eye can see, Sam thinks.

Dean’s wailing, his eyes are wet and he’s punching Sam against the sternum, the backside, the spine, and Sam finally catches two fists into his own palms and gently shakes Dean into stillness.

“Where’s Dad,” Dean hollers, hysterical, eyes terrorized, and Sam thinks he should’ve saved him for last; given John something special.

“God damn, FUCK YOU SAM, WHERE’S DAD,” Dean screams, and Sam bundles Dean up into his arms until Dean’s shudders turn to sobs turn to whimpers.

“They would’ve killed us,” Sam explains, patient. “They wouldn’t have believed me about you,” Sam continues; he knows Dean never would’ve spared the truth.

“Hanged you in the Centre for blasphemy,” Sam says, and Dean’s neck wilts with the honesty of it.

“I promised that no one was ever gonna touch you again,” Sam says, and Dean looks up; he’s crying and Sam can’t stand to see it, can’t bear it.

 _Not even him, especially not_ **_him_ **

“C’mon baby, c’mon,” Sam says, can’t believe himself.

“We’re leaving.”

Dean trundles behind, doesn’t look back, doesn’t make a sound when Sam decides that Elder’s house should go up in a blaze and the house flickers to flame behind him, crackling dim smoke and ash in a matter of seconds.

-

They park the Impala on the overlook before the drive and Dean won’t budge, glances down at the river of oil-paint bodies and smoke and Sam braces himself on his brother.

They’re hanging out of windows and doorframes; Dean can’t see it but Dad’s rent down the middle; Sam split him from forehead to genitalia, still asleep in bed.

Dean’s got no blood on his hands but it’s on his clothes and they’re Sam’s shirt and his pants and so Sam holds it all on his own, regardless.

Sam thinks about college, acceptance letters shoved underneath the floorboards of the ‘67, safe from prying eyes.

Thinks about the world; Dean’s never left Kansas, hasn’t even left the compound past the town in about all his life.

“It didn’t hurt them,” Sam says, just to fill up space, and Dean turns to him, rises so stiff that Sam envelopes his brother again and Dean allows it, wraps his own arms tight around Sam’s waist and breathes deep.

“When they ask about what happened,” Sam says, “I want them to know I’m a merciful God.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> sketchydean also DREW A THING, which you can find [here.](http://brosamigos.tumblr.com/post/143166948120/sketchydean-and-i-are-doing-a-thing-you-guys-and)
> 
> go visit her page: sketchydean.tumblr.com BECAUSE she's CLEARLY fantastic.


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